and the light of the world is in darkness now
by chibiness87
Summary: AU 4.03. Molly doesn't say it back. The aftermath. T for language. Now COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**And the light of the world is in darkness now** by **chibiness87  
Rating: T  
Spoilers:** 4.03 The Final Problem **  
Disclaimer:** not mine.

A/N: Um, yeah, I wrote another post 4.03 fic. Angst like whoa in this one. Sorrynotsorry.

* * *

Sherlock thinks it's going to be easy. And that, right there, is his first mistake.

" _You_ say it. Go on. You say it first."

She is staring at him, though she does not know it. Daring him with the last threads of strength she has left. She is so very, very strong, his Molly. Sometimes he forgets just how strong she really is. It takes him off guard. Molly was supposed to do what he asked, because it is him, and she always helps him. Always. But instead, he is being forced to do something for her in return. Something he never thought he would have to do. And oh, is this, this feeling, is this what his sister was aiming for? Trying to buy some time, some strength, he asks, "What?"

But Molly is resilient. Defiant. "Say it." And then her voice softens, and he can almost believe it was just the two of them in the room. Except for the part where he is being observed like a lab rat and she is doing all of this through a phone call and a secret camera feed. Which, side note, definitely going to have to do something about just as soon as he gets out of this laboratory. "Say it like you mean it."

"I-I…" He stops. Pauses. Takes a breath. "I love you." And then, because it is out there, because it is true and god knows she deserves to find _this_ out in a better way than this but it is all he has right now, not to mention the clock that is ever ticking down in the corner of the screen and if it'll help her say it back and live, he says it again. "I love you."

But then, to his horror, she simply stops. "Molly."

There is no movement, and if it weren't for the sound of her breathing coming down the phone he would have thought the screen had frozen. But he can see the way her hand is caressing the handset. Can see the way her mind is trying to work out the end game to this whole phone call. It's taking too much bloody _time_. "Molly _please_."

He hears her take a breath. Watches her move her phone away from her mouth and look at it, only to bring it back again. The seconds continue to tick by but he is unaware of anything and everything except for her. Begging her with his eyes to _hurry the fuck up_ and say the words back, his voice no longer working. But it is not enough.

The clock hits zero.

And as he stares, as he still wills her to say those words, both the line and the screen cut out, and he is left staring at the white noise which is now filling the place where Molly Hooper once stood. Dimly, he is aware of John's startled yell, and his brother's cry, but it is faint. There is too much noise, too much silence in his own mind to comprehend anything.

Until his sister comes up on the screen where Molly once stood, a small, almost manic grin on her face. "Well. That worked out better than I was expecting."

Everything falls back into focus with a snap, but all he can do is stare at this being that is supposed to be his blood. "What happened?"

His voice is lost. Timid. Eurus gives him a mocking pout of disappointment. "What do you think happened?"

"She…"

On the screen, his sister is shaking her head. "Oh what, did you think I would spare her? Come on Sherlock, you know better than that. I told you what the consequences would be." And then she grins, some sick, twisted thing that sends sharp barbs of pain into his chest. His heart. Jesus, he's going to be sick. Eurus crows in apparent delight. "All those little emotions, I can see them all over your face. It's like Christmas." And then her face hardens, her tone going blank again. "Hurry along now. Pull it together, brother dear. I need you in peak condition for the next task."

The screen goes blank once again, and he is left in the room with his friend and his brother, and a coffin.

Molly's coffin.

Because Molly is dead.

There is a feeling of such raw grief rising in him, that it is all he can do to stay still. Tears run unchecked down his cheek, and he lets them flow.

"Sherlock…" John's voice sounds from so very far away, and he turns his head towards him in what must be slow motion. There is a look of such sorrow on his friend's face that the truth of what has just come to pass hits him in the solar plexus harder than any punch he has ever received.

"No." The word is whispered. Broken. A shell of a thing.

"Sherlock…" And now his brother too is trying to comfort him, and it is too much.

"NO!"

Approaching the wooden lid, he gently, reverently places it in position, stroking the words on the brass plate softly. Words that he at least manged to tell her, even if she never got the time to say them back. And then he is angry. At _her_. If only she had just done what he had bloody asked of her. If only she had read him in the way she had always read him in the past. If only she had never met his sorry hide, had never loved him, had never been so perfect that he fell in love with her…

His fist comes down. Again and again and again, uncaring of the gun he still holds. Smashing the coffin to splinters, rage and grief and despair filling him.

No matter what the final outcome of the day, he knows it doesn't matter now.

He has failed.

Molly Hooper is dead.

He sinks to the ground, gun still clenched in his hand, and, for the first time in his life, weeps. He doesn't even give a damn that his sister is likely watching all of this in glee; not anymore. Evisceration is obviously the point of this vivisection; she might as well get her fill. Because if there is one thing he knows now, it is that he will end her.

Sister or not, kin or not, she will pay for killing the only person he has ever truly loved.

Eventually, seconds or minute or hours later, he feels John approach. His tone is soft, even as the words are hard. "I know you're in hell right now."

Hell is an understatement for where he is right now. He feels like a small child, lost in the darkness. "John…"

John places a hand on his shoulder, and he feels the weight of it all though his being. "I know."

Helpless, lost, he tries to tell his friend what he has only just let himself feel. "Molly…" But his voice cracks on her name, and he falls silent once more.

He feels John increase his grip on his shoulder. It is the only thing grounding him right now. "I know, mate. Believe me, I know."

And yes, John would know. But at least with Mary he was there. He was there, and they had had some time together, and had a child. What does he have to show for a lifetime of loving Molly? Harsh words and a slap to the face? Brokenly, he asks, "What am I supposed to do now?"

There is a firm resolve that falls over the ex-army man's face, and he can see John firmly pushing his emotions down. "Right now, we need to get out of here. And to do that, we need to move. Can you do that?"

Sherlock swallow. Tries to push what he is feeling down, only to be hit with a visage of Molly, standing radiant in her lab coat, her hair down around her shoulders like he has always preferred it to be. "I don't…"

But John's voice is firm. "Sherlock. Can you do that?"

The image of Molly nods her head, a soft smile on her face. He nods back, just the smallest incline of his head, but the smile he gets in return brightens her whole face. He will get through this. Jump through the hoops and get to the end, because to do otherwise would be the biggest insult on her memory he could bestow. Meeting his friend's eye, he nods. "For Molly."

John nods back. "For Molly."

* * *

TBC

(Did I mention it was another multi-chap?)

Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**And the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 2,** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : **T**  
 **Spoilers:** up to and including 4.03  
 **Disclaimer:** still not mine

 **A/N:** you guys! Thank you so much for all the support for this. Still angsty. Still not sorry.

* * *

Of course, he is not offered even a hint of a reprieve, despite the aching emptiness he is feeling, and the day continues to go to shit from there. An old shell of a house and a broken shell of a girl, and in the end, despite everything, the trials and the deaths and _Molly_ , he cannot kill her. Can do nothing more but feel an aching sadness for such a brilliant mind, being used in such a horrendous way. Never mind everyone hiding her very existence from him for all these years when he might have been able to help her before it came to _this_ , and Jesus, but what is wrong with his whole goddamn family?

As he helps his sister from the remains of their childhood home, he sees Molly out of the corner of his eye. Still dressed in her lab coat, hair blowing across her face in the breeze, she gives him a nod of what he thinks might be pride. Her lips move, words of comfort and praise falling on his ears, even though he knows if she were real and here he would not hear them. But she is not and he does; after all, they are all in his mind anyway. And it's not like she's going to have the chance to…

No.

He can't think about that.

Not yet.

He still has too much to do before he can start processing _that_.

* * *

He gets a ride back to London in one of the squad cars, following the ambulance with John safely inside back to the capital. John had come around from the shock of nearly being drowned in the same well that took Sherlock's childhood friend from him enough to insist on Bart's, and even though it is right up there on the list of 'places Sherlock Holmes would rather not go to right now' he was not the one nearly killed this evening, and so offers no protest.

Once he is sure John is safe, resting on a ward with a nurse and a guard posted, he finds himself drifting through the halls of the hospital he knows almost as well as his own home. The hours and the days he has spent here, and not just for cases but sometimes for experiments, and sometimes just to see _her_ , have made this place a safe haven.

But not anymore.

His feet have moved on autopilot, and it is only when he is in the doorway to her domain that he realises just where he has ended up, and he stops. His hand is resting on the door to the morgue, his body refusing to move further into a sanctum that no longer exists, when a voice from down the corridor startles him.

"Sherlock? That you?"

It has been a few years since he saw the man that is approaching, but he turns and greets him, dredging an attempt of a smile from somewhere deep inside him, even though smiling is the last thing he thinks he is capable of right now. "Stamford."

Stamford nods his head, before pointing to the door Sherlock belatedly realises his is still palming the handle of. "Molly's not here."

Sherlock drops his hand, pretending not to notice the strange look the older man is giving him. "Oh. Right." There is a beat of awkward silence. He is unsure what, exactly, decorum for this moment is. How exactly does one offer ones sympathy in situations like this? Sorry for your loss sounds trite at the best of time, and if anyone has suffered a loss surely it is him? He is the one who was in love with her, after all.

Except no. Not was. Is in love with her.

Still.

So instead of saying anything like that, he goes for what he assumes would be a slightly safer, read less painful, subject. "Don't often see you here this late. Isn't that one of the upsides of being higher up the employment ladder, or whatever euphemism it is you use?"

Stamford gives a small shake of his head, a sad, morose look flicking over his eyes. "Yes, well, they called me in."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, pain engulfing him once more. "They did." It is more of a statement than a question, but he answers it anyway.

"Yeah." He shoots Sherlock a look filled with sympathy. "I mean, it's understandable. What with…"

Sherlock cannot stand to listen to the events of the day being told to him; living through it once was painful enough. So before any more can be said, he cuts the pathologist off. "Yes. Yes, of course. I should have realised."

Stamford gives him another sympathetic look. "She'll be in later, of course."

That startles him, and Sherlock lifts his head up to meet his eyes. "What?"

"Molly. She'll be in later. If you wanted to see her." Stamford stops, looks down for a moment before starting again. "Look, I know it's not really my business, but I know you two…"

But Sherlock cannot bear to hear anything about how they were perceived by others. So instead, he interrupts, ignoring the echo of John calling him rude. "She's coming here?"

Stamford gives him a look that tells him he thinks he's being an idiot. "Well where else would she…?"

"No. Yes. I just thought… but of course she would…" He stops, looks down.

It makes sense for her to come here, he reasons. Her case would not be a simple one. They would want someone with forensic expertise like Stamford to…

No.

He still can't think about it.

"Hey, are you ok?"

Sherlock doesn't answer that. He can't. Instead, he turns to head back down away from the morgue. "I should go."

Stamford nods. "Ok. Did you want me to say anything?"

Pausing in his retreat, Sherlock turns back to ask, "What?"

Stamford nods to the still closed doors. "When she comes in. Did you want me to say anything?"

 _Like what_ , he wants to ask. _What message could you possibly convey at a time like this?_ Instead, Sherlock simply shakes his head. "I… thank you, Stamford, but no. No, it doesn't matter now."

Stamford nods. "If you're sure?"

"Quite sure."

Stamford shrugs, before turning and walking away. He is well out of earshot when Sherlock gives a soft sigh. "It's too late for words, anyway."

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

**and the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 3,** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : T  
 **Spoilers** : Post 4.03  
 **Disclaimer** : Not mine

 **A/N:** TRIGGER WARNING for very, very brief suicidal thoughts. Sorry for the delay folks. Hope this chapter makes up for it.

* * *

Sherlock is standing on the rooftop of the hospital, looking out over the city away from the direction her flat once stood, unlit cigarette in his hand, when he hears the footsteps coming up behind him. Soft and unhurried, ( _a gentleman must never show he is in haste, Sherlock,_ ) he knows who it is immediately.

"Hello, Mycroft."

His brother comes up to his side, before reaching in to his waistcoat and pulling something sleek and black from his inside pocket.

"Here."

His phone, he realises. The phone that he has left in the governor's office, the phone his sister had used to call…

Closing his mind to that train of thought, Sherlock takes it from his brother's hand.

Mycroft takes a step closer to the edge of the roof, peering over the ledge, and for a moment, a small, tiny moment, Sherlock wants nothing more than to take a flying leap from the parapet in full knowledge there is no crash mat to break his fall this time.

Except, that would betray a promise he had made to Molly years ago, and he's not going to be that person to turn to that, even if all he sees before him right now is a chasm. His mind is filling with long repressed memories, because despite what he tells John, Greg, the world, he does not delete things. It is impossible to delete memories. But he has pushed them so deep into his psyche that it will take a bulldozer to find them all.

Or, well, a long forgotten sister.

That thought brings him back to the present with a sickening jolt.

Eurus.

 _Molly_.

He feels the aching well of despair trying to claw up his throat again, but wills it back down. He will not give _Mycroft_ of all people the satisfaction of seeing him break apart again.

Once was one time too many.

As if seeing where his thoughts have led to, Mycroft sighs. Reaches in to his pocket again. Offers a light. But Sherlock shakes his head.

"I quit." It was another promise to Molly, given in the back of an ambulance as part of his mission to save John. A promise to give up all vices. Because she, quote, "cannot _do_ this again. Do you hear me, Sherlock? I can _not_ watch you kill yourself again," unquote. He's not going to break this one either. Even if what he really wants right now is the oblivion the slide of a needle and a 7% solution in his veins will give him.

It's not like she's here to see.

But he cannot, _will_ not betray her trust in him.

Mycroft gives a soft sigh. "Sherlock, you mustn't blame yourself."

Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother, shaking his head. His tone is firm, despite being very quiet. "I don't."

Mycroft turns to face him too, eyebrow raised, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "You don't?"

"No, Mycroft." And Sherlock turns his head back to look out over the city. Without looking at his brother, he tells him, "I blame you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mycroft raise his other eyebrow, eyes widening in apparent shock. Indeed, when he speaks, there is an undercurrent of surprise there. "Me?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, still taking in the sights of the city sprawling before him for a moment, before turning his head to look at his brother once more. Wanting him to see how serious he is in this matter. "You."

"I…"

It is rare to see Mycroft at a loss for words, but Sherlock is too worked up to gloat. Hs fist is flexing at his side, opening the cuts that cover his knuckles once more. But the pain in his chest outweighs any physical pain he is feeling. "You told me. All my life you told me not to get attached. That _alone protects us_. That, what was the phrase you used, oh yes, _sentiment is a defect found on the losing side_."

He realises suddenly that his voice is shaking. Unsteady. He feels like a lost child again.

Mycroft's voice, on the other hand, is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. The older brother holding all the cards. "Isn't it?"

"What?"

"Well, I mean, look at you, Sherlock." He sees his brother eye him from head down to feet. "Look what sentiment has done to you."

He remembers Eurus' face in the camera lens. The pride. The _glee. All those little emotions. I can see them all over your face. It's like Christmas._

Mycroft is speaking again, the words coming as if through a distant haze. "Remember brother, all I did was in aide to keep you safe."

Sherlock shakes his head. Voice strong again, he sneers, "No, brother. All you did was in aide to protect yourself."

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock…"

But Sherlock does not want to hear it. Shaking his head, he turns back to the cityscape, unable to look at his brother again when he admits, "I loved her, Mycroft."

He hears Mycroft scoff. "Don't be stupid, brother dear. It really does not become you. We Holmes, we do not _love_."

Sherlock turns, facing his brother, an almost ugly look of anger on his face. Stepping right into his personal space and not giving a damn about it, he growls, "The hell we don't."

The sudden ringing of a phone interrupts them both, and Sherlock feels the slight vibration in his hand, letting him know that it is his. He ignores it. Ignores the way his brother looks at him while he does so. There is silence for a mere second before the phone rings again.

Still staring daggers at his brother, he answers with a terse, "What?!"

"Sherlock." John sighs in what he thinks might be relief. Before he can say anything, his friend continues. "Where are you? Are you still at Bart's?"

Mycroft has taken the opportunity to step away from him, pulling his own cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it, he takes a long drag, seemingly ignoring his younger brother. But Sherlock knows better than to turn his back on him. Keeping his eyes fixed on his sibling, he answers John with a sharp "Yes."

"Oh, good." John sighs again. "I think, um, I think you better come back to the ward."

There is something in his voice than makes Sherlock blink, and turn from his brother. "What is it?" When he doesn't get an immediate answer, he falters. He cannot lose another friend tonight. More urgently, he asks, "John?"

"There's… there's something I think you're going to want to see."

The slight hesitance in his friend's voice has Sherlock moving towards the stairs before John has even finished his sentence.

"Are you ok?" When there is no immediate answer, Sherlock breaks into a loping jog, phone still clutched to his ear. "John. Are you ok?"

"Yeah, mate. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm really bloody good, actually."

There is a chocking note to his friend's voice that doesn't quite make sense. Like he is laughing and crying at the same time. Ah. John must be on some painkillers which are having an adverse effect on him. It does not slow his pace down any.

Understanding emotions may not be his strong suit, but that does not mean he doesn't recognise them in a voice.

It's just, mostly, he chooses to ignore what they might mean.

Especially when it is a hopeful note in Molly's voice when she is talking to him. Or the angry voice she uses when she is so furious she forgets the image of a meek person she portrays. Or how her voice breaks betraying the hurt she is feeling when he has opened his mouth against her in a pique of anger that he never actually _means_. Never. Never.

Holmes incapable of love? He snorts. Maybe Mycroft. Maybe Eurus. But surely what this complete clusterfuck of a day has proved is that he, Sherlock, can and does love.

Viscerally.

Didn't he prove that all those years ago when he jumped off a rooftop to save those his enemies thought were his closest allies?

Because while it is true that Sherlock Holmes knows how to love, he knows how to protect those that he loves more.

By hiding the truth from everyone.

Including her.

Especially her.

He stops, suddenly, there in the slightly open doorway to his friend's room, turning his back to face a slightly panting Mycroft who has followed him.

"How did she know?"

"What?" Mycroft pants. _So much for gentlemen in haste._

"Eurus." When Sherlock still only gets a confused face in reply, he explains further (and he's supposed to be the thick one in this family.) "How did she know to come after Molly?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "I don't know."

Sherlock steps into his brother's personal space again, knowing how much he hates it when people, especially him, does that. Voice just above a whisper, he asks, "Did you pay her?"

True to form, Mycroft takes a step back. His eyebrow has risen in surprise again. Sherlock feels oddly pleased he can still get that reaction. Especially at the clear shock in his brother's tone when he asks, "What?"

Slowly, voice now dangerously quiet, he asks, "Did you pay Molly Hooper?" Unnoticed, his voice begins to rise. "Was she one of your, your _spies_? Was she reporting back to you my every move?"

Now it is Mycroft who scoffs. "Are you even listening to yourself, Sherlock?"

Behind them, the door to John's room has opened slightly, allowing their voices to carry. Neither Holmes brother pays it much attention.

Sherlock is shaking his head. "But no. No, _Molly_ wouldn't do that. Because Molly Hooper is, _was_ , a kind, selfless human being who only saw the good in everyone."

"Sherlock…"

He sees Mycroft eye something behind him, but this point is too important to interrupt, even for John. " _Everyone_ , Mycroft."

Mycroft is still looking at John. "I really think…"

"I kept the world from seeing how much she meant to me because there are not enough people in the world like her and I was not about to paint a target on her back. And you and your scheming and your letting our murderous sister talk to Moriarty for five bloody minutes has destroyed that."

"If you would just…"

"She is dead because of _you_ , Mycroft. And I will never forgive you for that. Never. Now leave."

He turns around, fully prepared to find out what John wanted to show him, when he stops.

Molly Hooper is standing in the doorway, tears brimming in her eyes. "Sherlock…"

But the last thing he can handle is her image reaching for him when he will never get to feel that again, and he tries to step around her. He knows he must look stupid to everyone, but there is no way he can walk through her, not even when he knows she is not real, but to his horror she steps into his pathway. Puts her hand on his arm.

It is so real he can almost feel the heat of her hand through his coat.

Can almost feel the weight it would have, resting as it is on his arm.

Can almost feel her breathing.

No. Not almost.

 _Can_ feel her breathing.

His eyes track from her hand to her chest to her eyes. They are red, he realises. Like she has been crying.

"Sherlock…"

Her other hand comes to rest on his cheek, and he freezes. Steps back.

"No."

"Mate…"

He eyes go from the vision before him to his friend in the bed, to his brother who, he belatedly realises, is still standing there. They are all looking at him.

At _him_.

Because of course, _of_ _course_ Molly is not there.

This, he thinks, is what going mad must feel like.

Unable, unwilling to fall apart with an audience, he does what he feels is his only option. Pushing past his brother, he turns and he _runs_.

He doesn't see the three very much _real_ , very much _alive_ people share a look before one of them turns and hurries after him.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**and the light of the world is in darkness now chapter 4,** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 4.03  
 **Disclaimer:** not mine

* * *

Sherlock runs.

He runs and he runs and he _runs_ , the familiar streets of London flying past, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't think. Just keeps going and going and going. Maybe if he runs fast enough he will outrun his thoughts. Maybe if he runs far enough he will outrun _her_.

Because he can _still_ see her.

Even as he twists and turns his way through Postman's Park, down past Guildhall, before doubling back towards St Pauls, and then again through Cleary Gardens, he sees her.

His lungs are screaming at him; even on pursuits with the thrill of the chase in his veins he never runs like this, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. With every step he takes another brick from the wall of his mind palace falls, and he can feel the weight of his thoughts, the weight of his mind, crashing down on him. Suffocating him.

His destination now in sight, (and oh, it wasn't mindless running after all, how odd,) and he takes the steps as close to two at a time as he can manage, spiralling up and up and up, even as his mind spirals down. Reaching the top, he grabs the mesh wire above the railing and gasps. Desperately drawing air into his lungs, eyes searching for what he knows must, must be there.

A gap.

Smoke.

Something.

But there isn't anything.

No sign on the horizon of the destruction of a tower block. Indeed, the tower block itself is still present.

He can _see_ it.

But… The line went dead, the feed cut out, only to be replaced by silence and static. He knows what he saw. He knows what he heard.

Doesn't he?

"You know, you can get a much better view of London from the Sky Garden down the road."

He closes his eyes at her voice, slightly out of breath, coming from behind him. He does not move. Barely dares to breathe.

Her voice continues, drawing closer to him now. He can almost feel her breath on his skin. "I had breakfast there with Mary once when it first opened. You would…" she pauses for a moment, and he can almost feel the weight of her gaze on him, "probably hate it, actually." She lets out a small tiff of laughter. "Not enough history there."

Sherlock feels her come up closer behind him, hovering just outside his reach. Her voice is soft in the breeze. Haunting him. He has the oddest desire to cover his ears and hum. Instead, he turns his head slightly, and now he can see her out the corner of his eye. She is still there. Hair pulled back, face flushed, still trying to catch her breath.

She is not wearing her lab coat.

And it is this, this that he focuses on.

"This monument used to give the best view for miles. But now it's been swallowed up by new buildings. The views are still there but you have to know where to look. I always wondered…" she falls quiet, and he turns to face her more, drinking in the sight of her here, with him, in the darkness where light once stood.

He can't help himself. "Wondered what, exactly?"

And she looks at him. Into him. Eyes sharp and piercing, in a way that he has only ever felt from her. "Is that what it's like in your mind, Sherlock? New facts taking the place of old ones? Is that why you go for the old monuments over the new? To prove they still exist?"

He stares at her. This small woman who can see him, can read him, and he hopes, god does he hope, that this is real.

But he still feels as if his mind is failing him, old and new memories fighting for dominance, and hope has never been his friend. The cacophony of noise in his head is drowning him, and he clutches his hair in his hands. He wants everything to be quiet. To just shut up. _Shut up shut up shut up_.

He doesn't know he's saying all this aloud until he feels her hands cover his, pulling them from his hair gently.

"What? What is it, Sherlock? What do you want to shut up?" He shakes his head, but she is resilient in a way that feels both old and new at the same time. "Tell me."

He is staring at her hand, unable to look at her face. Terrified of what she will be able to see there. "My mind, Molly."

She shakes her head slightly, but her hand continues to grasp his. "I don't understand."

And now he does look at her. "It's all falling apart. Old and new and fake and real. How can I trust anything when I can't trust my mind?" Turning away, he tries to pull his hand from hers, but at her slight increase in pressure he gives up. Gives in. "Everything is processed by the brain. _Everything_. The body is just…" he waves his free hand in the air, "just transport. It is the _mind_ that is important, don't you see?" He turns and stares at her for a long moment, before turning away again. "Thoughts and sensations and memories… and if I can't trust that, if I can't trust my _mind_ , what can I trust?"

There are tears in her eyes now, and he can read her despair. Not for her, but for him, and that realisation does something to his chest that he just does _not_ know how to describe. Reaching up, she traces the outline of his cheek with her hand, pressing her palm into his skin. " _Me_ , Sherlock. You can trust _me_."

He wants to. More than anything, he wants to trust her. For her to be real. For the heat of her palm, the roughness of her skin to be true. But what if this, what if all of this is just another test? What if Eurus is still watching? Waiting?

What if he's still stuck in his mind on the island and John isn't recovering in hospital and Molly is still dead?

Her hand has fallen from his face and is grasping his now, moving it so his fingers are resting on her pulse. It is a habit he has, one only a few people are aware of. They stand in silence for a few moments, the only movement between them the slight movement of his fingers as he readjusts them in order to feel her pulse better.

He wonders just when Molly became so apt at reading him to know what he needed before even he himself knew.

"The human body can be drained of all blood in under 10 seconds if given the right vacuuming conditions."

Her non-sequitur breaks the silence, and he blinks at her. Because why would he need to know something like that? He turns to her slightly, her face still in profile, her pulse still strong beneath his fingers. "What?"

But she does not answer. Instead, she turns more towards him, shuffling closer so he can begin to feel the heat from her body, even as they stand 60 metres above the ground. "Mrs Johnson died from anaphylaxis. I performed her autopsy this morning. Her husband says she has no allergies, but IgE levels don't lie. I'm running an ELIZA, but I suspect it's her aspirin. Medical records show she was only prescribed it last week, and there are no indications she has ever taken it before."

He shakes his head at her, his eyes closing. "I don't know who…"

"Mr Wilson donated his body to science. I was keeping the liver for you, because you mentioned last week about needing one with mets for an experiment. They had spread to kidneys and his brain too, but I suspect the primary was the liver. I kept those back as well, in case you wanted samples to compare."

There is a pressure on his chest he doesn't understand as he begin to realise what it is she is doing to him. For him. A band feels tight around his heart. Her pulse continues to beat beneath his fingertips, and he can _feel_ it.

Suddenly, it is the only thing he can feel. The only thing he can hear.

The steady thrum beneath her skin, a lifeline keeping him alive.

Keeping him sane.

The destruction of his mind palace falters, a clear path formed amidst the rubble, and a door at the end of the hall. Unblemished. Undisturbed. And Molly, standing guard before it in her lab coat once again, a soft, sad smile on her face. Behind her, the door creaks open, and a small child, no more than five, exits. There is a yellow scarf tied around his neck, a mop of unruly curls on his head, and his blue-green eyes are wide with wonder.

He watches on as, without looking, Molly reaches down, and the small boy clasps her hand tightly.

The roaring in his head settles, the band around his heart snaps, and he opens his eyes with a gasp.

Molly, his Molly, is still holding his hand to her wrist. He can still feel her pulse, can feel still feel her breath.

She is still here.

Alive.

He stares at her. Drinks in the sight, feeling her presence wash over him like a balm. Calming him. "You're here."

She smiles. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm here."

This time the words are easy. Light and freeing and it doesn't matter than she has yet to tell him the same, he knows that will come, but for now he needs to tell her again, needs to say them like their hearts aren't breaking and his world is not hanging on a knife edge. "I love you." And then, because it is true, and he doesn't know what to do with this truth, but knows he cannot outrun the thought, cannot outrun her, he says it again. "I love you."

"Oh, you brilliant idiot." She huffs a laugh, a smile blooming across her face, making her look years younger, before she leans up, pressing her lips to his forehead and then pressing her head to his for a long moment. "I _know_."

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

**and the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 5,** by **chibiness87  
Rating**: T (little swearing)  
 **Spoilers** : 4.03  
 **Disclaimer:** Still not mine

 **A/N:** I wrote this chapter long hand because I was away from my laptop… 9 pages later, and there is maybe 5% of that version in this one. Ah well. Enjoy.

* * *

Molly Hooper was not having what one would call a good day.

This, she acknowledges, might just be the understatement of the century.

While not one particular incident being the cause of her bad day, the previous month's events (namely: Mary, John, Rosie, Sherlock (and not necessarily in that order)) had been taking their toll. So, because she is Molly Hooper and can never catch a sodding break, and because god, _life_ , seems to like irony so bloody much, her mobile choses this moment to ring.

It is _him_.

Of course it is.

Molly sighs. Because, right then, she could really not be arsed with doing the bidding of one consulting idiot. Didn't want to go to Bart's, didn't want to listen to his wild theory about… something, and could she please open the lab because John was busy and he was bored and a bored Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock… etc. etc. etc.

No. Right then, all Molly Hooper wanted to do was to sit in front of her television with a mug of tea and maybe have a cuddle with her cat, if he could be bothered to move from the chair in her bedroom. So, for the first time in her life, Molly Hooper ignores her phone.

Only for it to immediately ring again.

Something tells her he will continue to call until she answers, and figures the best way to get to her well thought out plan of tea and telly and cat cuddles is to answer.

Only for her to regret it a few seconds later.

Because she has known Sherlock Holmes for years. Has loved Sherlock Holmes for years. And while she knows it and he knows it and hell, anyone who spends even the slightest amount of time with them both could probably pick up on the tells within a few hours, if not minutes (she's never been exactly… good at hiding how she feels about him) they don't speak about it.

They definitely don't call each other out of the blue and demand they say those words aloud.

They _definitely_ don't pretend it's for a sodding case.

Because, well, she has known Sherlock Holmes for years. And, in that time, she has started to be able to read him. Not with the same accuracy that he can do, nor with the speed. But. He has tells. He has things that she can read about him that even his best friend misses.

Even now.

Maybe especially now.

So, instead of doing what she knows he expects her to do, she does the opposite.

Because if she has to break the rule and bare her heart to him for a case, well, she should be allowed to expect the same from him.

It's only fair, after all.

She thinks she has him then. Thinks he'll do that thing he does where he'll stammer out an excuse and hang up on her and she'll spend the next few days wondering where he fell off the face of the earth to, until he swans back into her lab like he owns the sodding place like the git that he is.

Honestly, if she wasn't so completely in love with him as to know she was more than a lost cause, she would walk away. From Bart's. From London. From him.

But she loves him too much to do that to him. Especially now.

Still. That does not give him carte blanche to play with her feelings the way he is.

Except.

Except, to her shock, her horror, (her glee,) he is saying the words. Stuttered and mumbled and _oh_ , oh bloody hell, he didn't know. He has no idea he was in love with her until she just forced it out of him.

She knows that immediately, especially with the way he pauses for a moment, before repeating himself.

She has known Sherlock Holmes for years. He never repeats himself.

Which means… well. First and foremost that he is in trouble. And that there is more to this conversation than a simple exchange of words. Her mind stalls for a moment, trying to work out just what sort of situation he has gotten himself into that would require this particular conversation. Faintly, she can hear him call her name, fairly begging her, and again she stills.

If this is the last thing she gets to say to him (god, please don't let it be the last thing she says to him,) she wants it to hold all the meaning she can convey. If they only get this one time to say these words, she wants them to _count_.

Only… he hangs up before she can say them.

The unbelievable bastard.

She knows, she knows, if it was that important, he wouldn't have hung up before he got what he wanted out of her. Which either means he is in more danger than she really wants to think about, or had become distracted by the case and had decided he didn't need her to say anything after all. Truly, it is a toss-up between each option.

She debates with herself for a moment, before deciding against calling him back. Because if he is in danger he could be in hiding, in which case calling him could give away his position and he might end up dead and on her slab and she already had to go through that once when he was only pretending to be dead; there is no way she could handle that for real. Alternatively, her calling him back could mean he tries to get her to say those words that have been held so close to her heart that they have become a part of her and she still doesn't know if she can do that from afar.

(She doesn't know if she could do it face to face either, but at least that way she might be able to read something in him to understand why it is so important for her to say _that_ to him _now_.)

Still glaring at her phone, it takes her a moment to understand the faint click she heard a while ago was the kettle boiling, and it has now cooled significantly. Shaking her head, she reaches over and switches the kettle back on, intent this time on making her brew and vegging for a few hours before she has to make her way back to Bart's.

The delights of afternoon mindless shows settles her down, and when she makes it into work later she is feeling calm and centred once again. The fact that Sherlock still hasn't called her back a slight niggle in the back of her mind, but then again, she always worries about him, and so it doesn't feel any different than normal.

That feeling exists for a grand total of seven minutes of her evening shift.

Because, seven minutes and twenty three seconds after starting work, Mike Stamford walks into the morgue, a look she has never seen before on his face. That he is even here is telling; these days Mike only works on the cases that need his level of expertise.

Molly pauses in her current action of reaching for her lab coat to ask, "Is everything ok?"

Instead of the normal 'fine' she gets to that answer, she is met with Mike's wide eyed stare. "You haven't heard?"

Her arm falls to her side, her coat still sitting on its hook by the door. "Heard, what?"

Mike shakes his head. "I would have thought Sherlock would have told you. He was here looking for you earlier."

The small bubble of worry begins to increase.

Fighting to keep her voice stable, she asks, "He was?"

Mike nods. "Yeah. I think it was about the body we have coming in."

"Oh?"

"Young boy. Disappeared, what, thirty years ago? They found his remains in a well tonight."

No wonder Mike had been called in. Short of one pathologist working out of the Lyell centre across town, Mike is the only pathologist to specialise in paediatric skeletal remains she knows. "Oh my god."

But apparently Mike had yet to get to the best/worst part. "Yeah. On Sherlock's old family estate."

"What?"

"Mmmm. And Dr Watson…" He pauses, and Molly feels her heart skip.

"What about John? Oh god, is he…" Molly pales. If she has to tell that little girl she loves like her own her other parent had gone, well, she doesn't quite know what she'll do.

But Mike is shaking his head, and she feels she can breathe again. Well, until he explains further. "I don't know the whole story. Just bits I overheard. But from what I understand John was trapped in the same well the remains were in, until Sherlock found him. John's a little shook up, and they're keeping him in for observation for a while longer, just to make sure he doesn't have any ill effects from exposure."

It is all Molly can do to stay upright at this point. "Oh my god."

Mike gives her a soft look. "Look. It's slow at the moment, and you were here late last night with Mrs Johnson. Why don't you head upstairs for a bit? I know how close you are."

Molly shakes her head. "It's not like that."

But Mike just gives her another small smile. "I know. Go on."

She does her best to smile, but feels it comes out closer to a grimace. "Thanks, Mike. If you need me, bleep me, yeah?"

"Molly." He shakes his head, pointing to the door. "Go."

She nods, and after getting the ward from Mike, heads upstairs. It doesn't take her long to work out which side room John is being kept in; if the guard outside his door wasn't enough of a giveaway the tittering of nurses as they pass the door surely would have done the trick.

Molly sighs, convinced the only reason for the nurses to be acting the way they were was because Sherlock was there. Even in one of his moods he was still… well, gorgeous. She had been present when many a head, male and female alike, had followed his path through the hospital. That he, the great observant detective he claimed to be, was oblivious to the attention was a point of amusement between herself and John.

Only, when she steps into the room with a small nod at the guard (one of the guys from the Met she vaguely recognises) John is resting in his room alone. He appears to be asleep, and the doctor in her takes over for a moment to read over his sats on the monitor above the bed. From the brief story she has heard from Mike they are within an acceptable range; she thinks if they stay like that he will be released from the ward fairly soon.

She wonders if he will need her to watch Rosie for a night while he recovers; while it is not normally her night she figures he might want a night away from everything. With the best will in the world, a six month old child is not exactly a conduit for peace.

But then again, maybe he'll want to have her tonight, if it was him who found the remains of a child at Sherlock's family home's well.

Christ.

And she thought _she_ was having a bad day.

A slight shift behind her tells her John is stirring, and she pours him a drink from the water by his bedside. There is a faint smell of smoke this close to the bed, and she smiles slightly to herself. Sherlock has been by, fairly recently too. If he knew John was close to waking, it's quite possible he's sneaked off to the roof to have a cigarette from the stash he thinks she doesn't know about.

He is trying, she knows this, but still, the past month hasn't exactly been smooth sailing for him either, and to expect him to go cold turkey from every vice, no matter what he said to her drugged out of his mind a few weeks ago, is quite a tall order. She figures, as long as it is a sneaky cigarette and not a sneaky hit of something much stronger and much more dangerous, well, she's not going to complain too loudly.

Baby steps, and all that.

John has shifted up to a sitting position now, and she offers him the cup.

He takes it with a small, "Thanks, Sherlock," and she blinks.

"Uh yeah, I'm not Sherlock."

Instantly, she finds herself doused in water.

Lovely.

"What the hell, John?!"

But John is staring at her like she's some sort of ghost, and it's, well, quite frightening, if she's being honest.

"John?"

"Molly?" His voice is a gasp, and she wonders slightly if he inadvertently inhaled any of the water he has just failed to drink.

Before she can ask though, she is being poked in the arm. Grabbing his hand, because seriously, _ow, what the fuck_? she asks, "What the hell John?!"

But John's eyes are round. Large and wide and he still has that look on his face that is defiantly scaring her now. He's begun muttering now, again and again and again, and it is only when she leans closer she hears him. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god."

"What, John? What is it?"

He looks at her, colour finally beginning to return to his cheeks, as he gasps out, "Holy fucking shit, Molly. We thought you were dead."

Oh.

Well. That at least explains the ghost look face thing.

But that's about it. Feeling her ability to stand falter with the way he is still staring at her, she slumps into the chair by his bed. "What?"

And then John, still eyes wide and pale, explains about how, as far as they were concerned, Sherlock, Mycroft and John had _watched_ as she had made tea, and made Sherlock say those words, and how, when she had taken too long to say them back, they had been cut off.

"We thought, Christ, we thought your flat was rigged and the explosives had gone off."

"Oh."

And then he is laughing. Big belly laughs that border on sobs, as he cries. "I'm going to kill Sherlock. What did he say to you when you saw him?"

And then, right then, all Molly can feel is a pit in her stomach opening, threatening to swallow her whole.

"The git. I bet he did this just to see my face. Because he…" he pauses, and Molly knows he must be able to read her.

"Because he knows, right? I mean, you've… you've _seen_ him, yeah?"

But all Molly can do is shake her head.

"Oh. Oh Christ."

She watches on, almost numb, as John reaches over and pulls his mobile to his side. With a defiant look at the notice on the wall, he opens it up and she sees him scroll over to his friend's name.

Distantly, she hears John ask Sherlock to come back, but all she can see, all she can hear is the phone call between them on repeat. If only she has just done what he had asked of her. There is very little in all the time she has known Sherlock for him to ask for, and this time, this one time she hasn't done so immediately, and this was the result?

She'll be lucky if he ever speaks to her again.

Before she is fully prepared, Sherlock is there. She hears his words to his brother through the partially opened door, and she cannot help herself when she reaches to pull it open further. And then the truth of the situation hits her harder than any blow ever could. Because, while she knows Sherlock is there physically, his eyes are dull. The normal spark she knows better than any other has gone, and his posture is almost bent over himself in pain. He is still spouting words to his brother, words that Mycroft, upon seeing her, tries to stem. But his pain, his grief is so raw, so real, that nothing can stop them.

He turns then, and it is only when he is faced with her that he stops. Gently, uncaring for the tears she knows must be welling if not falling by now, she reaches for him, her only concern at this moment is him. But he turns from her, shies away, and it is this, this denial that really shatters her heart.

She can only watch on as he turns and runs from them.

Turns and runs from _her_.

A quick look at the two men left spurs her into action, and she hurries after him. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she sends a quick courtesy text to Mike. While she is sure Mycroft can explain to her boss her sudden departure, she does not want to fall into his bad graces.

Especially given how kind he has been to her over the past few months.

She reaches the entrance to the hospital quickly, taking the stairs over waiting for the lift, and it proves to be the correct decision when she sees his trademark coat hurrying down the road a little way ahead of her.

She forgets, in all the not sleeping like a regular human being and not eating like a regular human being, not to mention the recent drug spates, just how bloody fit Sherlock actually is. It only takes her a few yards to realise that there is no way she is going to be able to catch him by simply running after him.

No.

To catch him, she's going to have to be clever.

She's going to have to think like him.

So. First, she needs to work out what he would need. Because once she has that, she can start working on locations.

Fact one: Sherlock called her, asking her to say she loved him. She thought it was for a case, but he thought she would be killed.

Fact two: She did not say it back. So, therefore, he thought she had been killed.

Location: her flat.

Fact three: She was still alive, thank you very much.

Hypothesis. Sherlock thinks he is right. Molly died. Her flat was destroyed.  
Null Hypothesis. Sherlock is wrong. Her flat is still there. Molly did not die.

So. Aim: Find status of Molly's flat. Best results obtained from observation.

Requirements. A good view of London, especially in the direction of her flat, easy distance from Bart's. Note: Exclude Bart's.

She thinks back over all the cases she has worked with Sherlock over the years, all the odd pieces of information she has been able to gain from him. His likes. His dislikes. His preferences. The way he bemoans every time a new tower block is built. The way he hates the commercial outpouring of the views of London he has fought so hard to find out for himself.

The way the old views are being taken over by the new views. The light disappearing into the dark.

And suddenly, she _knows_ where he will go.

The Monument to the great fire of London towers before her before long, but she is still behind Sherlock. Still. At least she was right in knowing where he would end up after rushing off like that. She takes her time up the steps; no need to rush up them and then be useless to him when she gets to the top.

Because she knows what she has to do now. It's just, she's going to have to break down a few walls to get there. It is only when he starts speaking to her that she finally dares to approach enough to be able to reach him. When he grasps at his hair, tugging and pulling and she is convinced he is about to pull it out, she gently tugs his hands free. It is enough to get him to talk, even if his eyes still have that wild look in them, and she feels her heart ache for him all over again.

Feels herself fall in love with him, all over again.

He is lost at sea, looking for an anchor, and she has always been that to him; there is no way she is about to turn away from him now. Sill holding him as much as she dares, she tells him, "Me, Sherlock. You can trust me."

Moving her hold on his hand so his fingers rest more firmly over her pulse, she smiles to herself when he adjusts his hold himself. It is a habit she has observed with him, the way he will centre himself sometimes by taking a pulse. Not just suspects and clients, but her own too, late at night in the lab, and, more recently, when she has been on drug watch.

Smiling to herself, she racks her brain to find the last piece that will save him. And then, suddenly, she knows.

She starts spouting things he would not know. Things he would not be able to say he already knew. The old making way for the new, but at least the new was in the here and now, not the then and there.

It is only when she gets to mentioning the body parts she has kept back especially for him to use than she feels his grip on her hand change. Go from observing to feeling, and she looks at him. His eyes are clear, and the spark that was missing is burning again, and oh, _oh_ , she knows what that is.

His eyes speak to her heart before the words leave his lips, and it is all she can do not to cry. Instead, she pulls him closer in order to press her lips to his forehead; the only contact she can manage without the tears flowing, before pressing herself closer to him. "Oh you brilliant idiot," she sighs. She feels his grip on her tighten, and she cannot help the small huff of laughter that escapes. It feels freeing. Pressing herself closer, she finally says the words that she knows will save him. Because she has known Sherlock for years. And he has never repeated himself in the way he has done to her tonight. She knows what he means with his words, what he is asking for. And her answer will always be yes. But for now, she gives him the words he needs, the words that tell him she is here and she has heard him. "I _know_."

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	6. Chapter 6

**And the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 6,** by **chibiness87  
Rating: High T **for this chapter. **  
Spoilers: up to and including 4.03  
Disclaimer: **not mine.

 **A/N:** Gah. Sorry for the delay folks. Thank you to each and every one of you for sticking with this.

* * *

He doesn't know how long they stand there, pressed against each other in the chilling breeze of the night air. Eventually, he becomes aware of her shuddering against him, and he curses under his breath. Shrugging off his coat, he slides it over her shoulders, making sure her arms slide into the sleeves as he does so, simply pulling the sides closed when she tries to protest.

The sight of her in his Belstaff does something to his insides, makes his pulse quicken for a moment, and the image before him banishes an old memory of a different woman wearing his coat to the abyss.

Molly looks, quite frankly, ridiculous.

It is much too large for her slim frame, the ends of the coat all but brushing the platform they are standing on. The sleeves cover her hands so only the very ends of her fingers are showing, and he watches in amusement as she huffs a sigh, before pushing the sleeves up slightly to free her hands, only for the weight of the material to bring the sleeves down again. After a moment she gives up, and instead she… snuggles, he thinks is the word, into the warmth it provides.

She looks breath-taking.

He finds himself leaning, quite without permission, into her space, one hand, trembling slightly, coming up to land of her cheek, his thumb tracing the contours her bones loan to her figure. He's not sure if he's still breathing, caught in this moment, adrenaline and something else, something potent singing in his veins, wanting nothing more than to find out how she tastes. He watches as her pupils enlarge, a soft gasp on her lips, even as she moves closer to him.

Below them, the sound of a car door slamming sounds, however instead of the expected roar of acceleration as the vehicle departs, the gentle hum of the engine remains. Sherlock curses, pulling his hand from her face, and, ignoring the soft moan from behind him, leans a little closer to the railing, and sees what he feared. The long sleek lines of one of his brothers cars is apparent to him, even from this high up, and he sighs. Shifting, he slides his hands into the pocket of his coat, ignoring for the moment the soft gasp Molly lets out at the move, and pulls his returned phone from its depths. It's telling, he thinks, just how distracted he had become earlier, when he had simply slid the phone into his pocket, and had not thought to look it over.

He does so now, peering intently at the lines of his phone, tilting it this way and that in the waning light, looking for what he suspects, no, he knows is there. It only takes him a few moments, until the slight raised dot catches the light, and he sighs once more. With fingers still slightly shaking, (is it latent adrenaline or disappointment, he's not sure,) he manages to pull the tracker from his phone, sticking it instead to the railing at his side.

"Sherlock?" Her voice is hesitant, as is the touch of her hand on his arm.

He doesn't look at her. He can't. If he does, he'll finish what he so very nearly started, and he can't afford that distraction. Not now. "Mycroft. Time to go, I think."

He does look at her now, if one could call the quick glance at her face a look. Still, the humming of desire in his blood, the want in his veins, even though he knows he cannot do anything about it now, doesn't stop him from taking her hand as he leads her down the steps. They reach the bottom quickly, moving towards the entrance, when he stops, pausing at the entrance way when the sound of loud, arguing voices becomes apparent. Turning so he can see her, still encased in his coat, he presses a finger to his lips, and waits for Molly to nod, before he creeps forward, his shoes brushing slightly against the stone flooring. Peeking out the stairway door, he sees the agents his brother has dispatched after him in a heated discussion with the guard who, while taking a quick fag break, had carelessly left the door open and unattended, and yet was, even now, insisting there was no way anyone could possibly be in the tower.

A soft sound from behind him has he turning on the spot, only to see Molly with a sheepish expression on her face. He exhales sharply, feeling his heart rate spike and slow, and gives her a glare of annoyance. She gives him one back, lifting her chin in defiance. Fleetingly, he craves for the time she would be meek around him, stutter and stumble, but then he feels ashamed. He has known, always known, she is so much stronger than even he gives her credit for.

Her small hand reaches for his, and he gives it a slight squeeze before attempting to release her. But she holds to it tighter, and it draws his attention away from the ongoing argument which is preventing their escape into the night. Molly is now tugging on his hand, and he turns once more, intending to get her to stop, when he finally sees why she is so intent on getting his attention.

The brightly labelled fire exit door behind them is not alarmed, and he gives her a brilliant smile. She grins back and him, and the sight does something to his insides, makes his heart rate spike once more and his breath hitch and he can't help it, not this time. He swoops down and kisses her, on the lips, hard and fast and not nearly long enough, before pulling her over to the door and their escape.

It is only when they have gotten a few streets away that his brain finally catches up with him, and he stumbles for a moment before regaining his balance.

He has just kissed Molly. Molly Hooper, one of the only people in his life whom he trusts, the woman he has finally admitted to loving, and who, even now, is helping him escape a brother who is just too damned nosy for his own good.

Suddenly, the memory of the last time he traced the streets floods his mind. The words he wrote from the tracker he knew about in a fit of spite to his brother, the conversations he had with what he thought was a client but turned out to be his sister.

The same sister who almost killed his best friend.

The same sister he thought had killed the woman standing at his side.

Inside his head, the silence comes to a crashing end, another pillar of his memories faulting, coming down around the small image of his younger self, still clinging to the version of Molly that's there, holding him. Sheltering him, when the rest of his world is falling to pieces.

He needs that safety his mind is showing him, needs it in the flesh, and for once in his life, he doesn't think, just acts.

Ducking into an alleyway, he pulls Molly with him, crushing her up against the wall.

She gasps, straining her neck up slightly to look back over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Sherlock? What is it? Are- are we being followed?"

He wants to reassure her, but instead all he does is shake his head once, before pressing himself against her warmth, ducking his head down into her neck where it meets her shoulder. He feels one of her small hands thread its way into his hair, and cannot help the soft moan at the gentle sensation.

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice is a whisper in his ear, even as her hands continue their path through his hair. "What is it?"

He shakes his head again, breathing in the scent of her, still recovering from the fact she is here, with him.

"Sherlock?"

He pulls away from her neck, but only so he can move up to her see her. Tracing the contours of her face with his eyes, he softly exhales the breath he feels like he has been holding since that phone call, pressing his forehead against hers as he does so.

He feels her hand caress the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to her, before she presses a soft kiss, fleetingly soft, against his temple. "Hey, hey, it's, it's ok, Sherlock."

He moans, presses his lips against her own brow in response, before voice hitching, he whispers, "I thought I lost you."

He feels her arms hold him closer, a feat he didn't think would be possible, her lips at his ear now. Voice soft, she murmurs, "I'm right here."

Still unable to pull away from her skin, he confesses into her neck, "She saw it. I don't know how, I kept you hidden, I kept you safe…" He pauses, drawing in a shaking breath, "Everyone missed it. Moriarty, Magnussen, everyone, but _she_ saw."

"What, Sherlock?" Molly pushes him back slightly, her intense gaze catching his. There are multiple questions in her eyes, and he knows he's confessing too much for her to comprehend right now. He's confessing too much for _him_ to comprehend right now. But instead of demanding an explanation, she only asks, "What did she see?"

"She saw how much I need you. How I have always, _always_ needed you." He gulps, pressing a kiss to her brow before closing his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers once more. "She took you away from me because she knew."

"Knew what?"

"Know you would be the only thing that is keeping me sane right now."

He feels her gasp, try to push him away so she can see him, but he shakes his head, pulls her closer. "What?"

"My head. My mind is a mess. But you, you _stay_." And now he does pull back, lets his eyes drink her in. timidly, he asks, "Why, Molly? Why do you stay?"

"You know the answer to that. Weren't you listening before? I love you, Sherlock." Molly gives him a shy smile and a slight shrug, the gesture almost hidden by his coat. "Where else would I go?"

Her confession hangs between them for a long moment, his eyes drinking her in in wonder before it all becomes too much.

"Molly…" her name is an anguished moan, and he cannot hold himself back any longer. Leaning in, he crushes his mouth to hers, relishing in the slight gasp she gives at the action, before he feels her return his kiss.

He is lost, then. Lost in the sensation of mouths and then tongues, the taste of her crashing into his senses like a hurricane, and he moans. Deepens their kiss, hands fumbling with the opening of his coat, wanting, needing to feel her skin.

Pulling the sides open, he slates his mouth down her neck, sucking hard kisses into the fragile skin there. Molly moans, tries to pull him closer, and he lets out a whimper. Pulling himself away from her neck, he rests the weight of his head against hers, gasping in air desperately.

"Tell me to stop."

Wordlessly, she shakes her head, and he groans. Leans in again, nipping at her skin. She arches towards him, tilting her head in such a way as it gives him more access. Between kisses and nips, he moans again, "Push me away, tell me to stop."

"Why?" her question is a mewling gasp, and he abandons her neck to kiss her deeply again.

Pulling away only when air becomes a complete necessity, he groans at her, "Ill only hurt you, Molly."

But she only shakes her head, reaching for him again, a moan on her lips. "I don't care."

He leans in again, takes her mouth with his once more. He can feel his erection pulsing, begging for relief, and he presses the aching mass into her hip, feeling her cry out in response. One of her hands reaches down, caresses him though his trousers, and he grunts. Holding her hand still, he grinds into her grip, panting against her neck as he does so. The lust and relief and terror and despair are warring with each other in his brain, in his blood, and he wants her.

Dear god, but he wants her. Wants to sink into her and push all his hurt and pain and, yes, guilt, into her, wants the peace he knows her body can give him.

But while he is a selfish man, he knows to do that would mean losing her, and, if the past day has taught him anything, it is that he cannot lose her.

With an anguished groan, he pulls himself away from her, holding a hand up as she reaches out to him, backs up another step. Molly pauses, her own desire written across her face, and it takes everything in him not to fall back against her and take her. Right there, in a dark alley against the rough brick wall, consequences be damned.

He blinks, a deeply buried neuron in his brain firing up, and he gasps.

Jesus, what the hell was he thinking? Losing his control like that, in the open no less. Senses down, where anyone could catch them.

He has spent years protecting her, pushing her away and pretending he doesn't care, and to then go and do this?

He might as well paint a flashing neon target on her back himself.

He gulps, nausea hitting him at once, a feeling of dread, of repulsion flushing any remaining hints of lust from his system, and he takes another step back.

"Sherlock?"

"I…"

He what? Words, usually so easy to come by, fail him, and he simply stares at her for a long moment, before turning and hurrying away.

He thinks he hears her call after him, but the howling chaos his mind has become once again is drowning everything out, and he quickens his pace.

When he finally finds the courage to pause and glance over his shoulder, he stops. Slumps against the wall he is standing beside.

Because Molly is following him this time.

No one is following him.

He's alone.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	7. Chapter 7

**And the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 7** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T  
Spoilers:** 4.03  
 **Disclaimer:** not mine.

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay, folks. RL has been a bit of a bitch lately. Thank you to all who continue to read and support my ramblings. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Sherlock wanders around for another half hour, before he finds his feet leading him back to Bart's. Because in the end, he always ends up back there. He wants to make his way back down to the morgue, knowing by now the skeletal remains of his childhood friend would be in the care of Stamford, but a memory of something he overheard once, many times past, comes to him as he stands, waiting for the lift. _Go with the living; the dead can wait._

So instead of making his way down to the morgue, he makes his way upstairs, to where John is still admitted. He pauses in the doorway for a moment, taking in the wan face of his friend. Yet another person in his life he almost lost today.

He wonders when he became so toxic.

John sighs, his eyes opening wide, and for the first time Sherlock wonders just what he looks like. He feels tired, exhausted and not just physically. His emotions are still all over the place, and his mind is still a mess, threatening to consume him again, now Molly is not there to soothe him.

 _And whose fault is that?_

John, normally one to overlook the obvious, doesn't this time. "What happened?"

Slowly, Sherlock shuffles into the room. And, because he doesn't know what else to do, tells him everything. Tells him of how he ran, and how Molly knew, even before he did, where he would go. The way he finally stopped looking and _saw_. And then the panic that consumed him when he realised just what he was doing; kissing Molly in the middle of the London streets where anyone could see.

He stops then, almost panting for breath, as John gives him such a look of a scolding parent for a moment he feels like an infant again. "Let me get this straight." Even from the hospital bed John manages to look like he is a moment away from punching him. "You told Molly you loved her. Kissed her. And then _you ran away_?"

Sherlock throws his hands up in the air, a sheer feeling of helplessness overwhelming him. "What else was I supposed to do, John?" Turning, he begins pacing the length of the room, such as he can. "I might as well have painted a target on her back and let the monsters of the world take aim. _Again_." With a sigh, he hangs his head, finally letting his friend see his anguish. "I can't protect her, John." He shoots him a hard look. "And I won't put her in danger like that."

John sighs, shaking his head. Almost like he already knows the answer, he asks, "And you told her this, yes? Before you pulled the vanishing act."

"I…" Sherlock falls silent, before slowly, deliberately, he shakes his head in the negative. Just once, but it is enough.

John closes his eyes, an admonishing sigh escaping his lips. Shaking his head, he fixes Sherlock with a hard look. "You. _Utter._ Cock."

"I can't lose her, John. I…" he sighs, rubbing his temples, trying to make John see what is so obvious to him. "She has to stay safe."

But John is still shaking his head. "And doing this to her," he pauses, flicks his eyes up and down Sherlock for a moment before continuing, "to _you_ ; will this make her safe?"

"I…"

John interrupts before he can say anything else, his tone firm. "Because, not to beat about the bush here mate, but your sister saw through _that_ bullshit on an island in the middle of the ocean."

There is so much that could be said to that statement, Sherlock doesn't even know where to begin. "Eurus, she…"

But it turns out John isn't all that interested in what he thinks of his sister's observational skills. "What do you think that test was about, Sherlock. Really?"

There is no misunderstanding between them as to which test he is referring. Sherlock pauses for a moment, eyes falling closed once more, trying to recall everything his sister had bragged about in the aftermath. The elation and the glee at his failure. "I… she wanted me to lose. To feel loss."

Keeping his eyes closed, he is almost certain John is shaking his head when he says, "No, I don't think that was it."

Opening his eyes at that, Sherlock asks, "What?"

John tilts his head in the way Sherlock has learnt means he is thinking about how to phrase something he, Sherlock, might not like. He's had plenty of time to perfect it over the years. Nodding almost to himself, John gives him a small, hesitant smile. "I think, in her own weird, twisted way, she was trying to make you happy."

"Wh… how?! By making me think Molly was _dead_?"

But John doesn't answer that. Instead, he asks, "Do you know what Mary chose to have written on her coffin?"

Suddenly, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Because this is a subject even Sherlock knows not to bring up. "What?"

John's eyes have closed now, his voice the only evidence to the strain the topic is having on him; the wounds of that particular loss still raw for both of them. "There was a brass plate. Do you know what Mary chose for it?"

"No." Sherlock sighs. He doesn't mean the bitterness of the words that follows, but the way his friend has shunned him in the aftermath of Mary's death still haunts him. "If you recall, I was not invited to the service."

John, to his credit, winces at the tone. Still, he presses on. "But you came anyway." Fixing his eyes on Sherlock, his tone brokers no arguments when he adds, "And before you say anything, I am glad that you did."

Sherlock sighs again. "John…"

He is interrupted before he can say anything else, a determined look in John's eye as he gives his own sigh. "Look. We're getting off topic here."

Sherlock nods. Then shakes his head in answer. "Then, no. I don't know what Mary chose."

And this time John gives his own nod, a slightly strange glint in his eye, like he is imparting important knowledge. "Nothing," he says. When Sherlock only blinks at him in confusion, he clarifies. "Nothing. Because _Mary_ didn't choose it."

"What?"

"I did." John is still giving him the all-knowing look. It's beginning to be a bit annoying, truth be told.

Sherlock shakes his head, wishing for once for someone to talk plainly and not in riddles. He's normally only too happy to try to work out a puzzle, but not after everything that has happened today. Feeling the beginning of a headache forming, he rubs his temples again, muttering, "I still don't understand."

John must sense he is beginning to frustrate him, because this time when he speaks the all-knowing tone has gone, instead replaced by a gentle one. "The person _in_ the coffin does not choose the name _on_ the coffin. Oh, they can suggest. They can say what they would _like_ to be there. But they don't get to see the final product."

Well. That was obvious. Shaking his head, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at John in question. "Yes. So? Molly's name wasn't on the coffin so I fail to see the point you are trying to…" And then, suddenly, he does. "Oh."

John is giving him a small, careful smile now. "You knew who it was for the moment you saw the nameplate. Even without a name you knew. You're worried about letting the truth that you've tried to keep hidden all this time out, but the simple fact is, mate, it's already out there. Shouldn't you embrace it while you can?"

It' still so new to him, recognising and admitting to feeling sentiment. To feeling love. To actually naming what he has been feeling all this time. To admitting he feels at all. "I…"

Softly, John continues. "It's not like the movies. Or a tap you can turn on and off at will. A person does not wake up one day and stop loving somebody. It's not like infatuation or a passing fancy, Sherlock. Love, real, hit you in the stomach and you can't breathe without them love, is forever."

"Was it always like that? With you and Mary?"

John nods. "Yes, mate. Always. Even when things were bad, I loved her. Still love her."

Sherlock nods, before asking, almost timidly, "And, and was it always like this?"

John quirks an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock pauses, thinking about the way his heart and mind falter whenever she is near. The way his body has betrayed him in the past by making his heart beat quicker, his breath come faster. The pain he felt when he turned and ran from her. Again and again and again. "Was it always this hard?"

This time, John scoffs. "What, you thought I would be easy?"

Confused now, Sherlock asks, "Isn't it?"

"No, Sherlock. No. Relationships, they take work. You both have to want it, and want it to succeed, or eventually one person ends up doing all the work until they can't anymore, and _that's_ when things fall apart."

He nods. "Oh."

There is a slight grin on John's face now, even as he seems to be peering behind his shoulder. "So I guess the real question is, what is it you want?"

He senses her before she says anything, and he pivots on the spot. It is obvious he has startled her, as she lets out a soft, "Oh."

"Molly." Her name feels like a blessing, and he stops for a moment, just letting her presence seep into him once more.

Molly ducks her head, stuttering slightly. It makes something in his chest clench; it has been years since she has stuttered in his presence. "Sorry. Sorry, I just, I still had your, um, coat." He catches sight of her hands worrying the wool slightly where it is slung over her arm. "And I, I figured you'd be by at some point to see John," she breaks away from his stare to peek at John over his shoulder for a moment, one hand raised slightly in a quick wave, "Hi John," and then her eyes fix back on his, "so I was just going to leave it…" she trails off suddenly, her eyebrow raising in confusion. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

But all Sherlock can see, all he wants to see, is her. Taking a step forward, he gently pulls his coat from her arms, slinging it carelessly towards the bed. "Molly."

Her eyes track the coats progress for a moment, before she brings her gaze back to his. He can feel John's stare blazing into his back, but pays his friend no heed. Instead, he takes a step closer to the small woman in front of him. She stands her ground, always so brave, and whispers, "Sherlock?"

She is looking at him, eyes wide and round, hope and wariness easy to see in their depths. He feels like he is drowning. He feels like he's been hit in the stomach and only now that she is here can he breathe.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"What is it?"

Her hand comes up to touch him, and he grabs it before she can change her mind and pull it away. Placing it over his chest, letting her feel the rate of his heart in his chest, he tells her, "I am a very selfish man."

Molly nods slightly, wariness still evident in her gaze. "Ok."

Regardless, he continues, his thumb rubbing idle circles into her palm now. "I take what I want and I don't care about consequences."

Molly ducks her head slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. "I… I know."

Still, his hand continues to caress hers. "I don't stop to think about how my actions might impact on others."

Molly nods, and he swears he hears her mutter a soft, "Ok…"

Ducking his head, he catches her gaze with his again. Gently, firmly, he tells her, "I have to battle daily to be clean and I don't eat for days and I play the violin at all times and sometimes I don't speak for weeks."

Molly huffs a sigh. "I know all of this."

Still, he continues. "I have so much stuff in my head that needs sorting out. Family and history and everything is a mess." And now, he stops. Falls silent. Stops circling her palm, instead squeezing her hand, and tracing the contours of her face with his eyes, almost in wonder. "Except you, Molly. Except for you."

She looks up at that, confusion evident in her wide eyes. "I don't… I'm not sure I…"

Slowly, Sherlock lowers his head, until they are all but sharing the same air. He need only move a fraction and they'd be kissing again. And oh, but he _wants_. Roughly, he gasps, "I'm not a good man."

Her eyes are swimming pools of desire now, calling to him. "Sherlock…"

He swallows audibly. "I'm not a good man. I forget important dates. Birthdays and, and anniversaries and Christmas… I mean, I forgot I had a _sister_. I'd be a rubbish… Boyfriend. Juvenile term, that. Paramour. Partner."

"I…"

Desperately clinging on to his last thread of control, he closes his eyes, lets his head rest against hers for a moment before pulling back. Hesitant now, he rasps, "But, if you… I mean…"

"What, Sherlock?"

Timid, almost childlike now, he blinks. "If that's ok, if you think you might be able to… I could be yours?"

"You… No, I don't…" Molly blinks, pulling back from him, a gasp on her lips. He tries desperately not to let her know just how much that action hurts.

Straightening, he blinks, looking around the room at everything but her small frame in front of him. "Right. Yes. Stupid idea. Sorry. Forget it. You are so good and brilliant and pure, and you deserve someone so much more than what I could ever hope to be. I…" Cutting himself off, he shoots John a quick, sad look, unable to bear the look of sorrow his friend has on his face. Turning back to Molly he bends, and presses his lips to her cheek for one heart-breaking moment. Standing upright, he gives her what he hopes is more of a stronger smile than he thinks he gives her. "Be happy, Molly Hooper."

He turns and gets as far as the door before her hand reaches for his, and her whispered, broken, "Wait!" registers.

Tears are brewing in her own eyes now, and it makes his chest feel tight again. On a broken sob, Molly cries, "I'm not a good person."

He closes his eyes, sighing loudly. Of all the idiotic things for her to say… "Molly."

But she shakes her head, pulls away from him to cross her arms across her chest. Now it seems it is her who cannot bear to maintain eye contact. "I… I lie to my friends. I look the other way when I know I should step in. I let people down constantly. I dated a criminal mastermind to make the one person I love jealous, and they nearly died because of it. I got engaged to someone else when the person I love was away, and when they came back I didn't end it because I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my face." And now she does look at him, and the pure, abject misery on her face has him moving to her without any thought of possibly consequences. She looks up at his movement, holding out a hand to ward him off. "Except, except that's not even true. Because I _saw_ it, I saw _you_."

He blinks, confused. "What?"

Sniffling, she wipes at the tears that are flowing unchecked down her face. "You looked sad. You looked sad, and you _left_ , and I didn't run after you. I just let you go."

It comes to him suddenly, the occasion she must mean. With a soft smile, he sighs. "You were enjoying the wedding."

But Molly shakes her head. "No. not then. Before that."

He quirks an eyebrow, intending to ask what she is talking about, but she is continuing, and then, he _knows_. "You kissed me, and you wished me well, and I knew. Right then I _knew_ , I knew what you…" She sniffs, and he blinks. Looks away for a moment, pain engulfing him. The feeling of loss that he had felt that day when he noticed she was no longer his… But Molly is still talking, and he refocuses on her. "…and I didn't say anything. I let you think I was happy, that I had moved on…" She pauses for a moment, her eyes tracing over his face in much the same way he was doing to her earlier. In a broken whisper, she finally gasps out, "You thought I didn't love you."

Hope, treacherous hope, blooms to life in his chest, and he gasps. "What are you saying? Molly?"

It takes her a minute to catch her breath; to calm herself so she can speak again. Keeping her gaze lock on his, both of them continue to ignore John, despite this being his hospital room. Settled now, Molly sighs, and this time it is her that reaches for his hand. He lets her cradle it, her two hands covering his one. "I know who you are. What you are capable of. I know everything that you can and have done because you have done them to me. I know the very best of you, and yes, the beast of you. But more than any of that, I know your heart, Sherlock."

"I…" he gulps. Swallows. Unsure what to say to her.

Molly gives him a hard look. "And don't say you don't have one, because that is such a load of… of horseshit."

Denying his heart right now is so far from what he wants to do, that he shakes his head. Turing his hand over in hers, he lets their fingers tangle together for a moment, before using it to pull her to him. When she rests her head against his chest, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to wrap his arms around her, and hold her close. Ducking his head so his mouth is level with her ear, he sighs. "Molly… I don't know what to do. I have no data, no experience in this."

Leaning back, she makes sure their eye are meeting. "In what, exactly?"

"In loving someone. Of being with someone. But…"

"But?" There is a glint in her eyes now, a spark that wasn't there before.

"But none of that matters. None of that… I don't care about any of that." He pulls her to his chest again, muttering to her as he does so, "I am a very, very selfish man."

She nods against him; he can feel the movement against his sternum.

Leaning back, it is now him who initiates eye contact. Tone brokering no nonsense, he tells her, "If we do this, you are not allowed to die."

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a grin. "I'm pretty sure that's inevitable."

He sighs, exasperated. "Molly…"

Leaning back into him, Molly nods. "But, I will endeavour to make sure I survive for as long as possible, ok?"

He tightens his arms around her. "Ok."

"Ok."

There is a cry of delight from behind them, and as one they turn to see John, a beaming smile on his face. "Took you guys long enough."

Rolling his eyes at his friend, Sherlock grabs Molly's hand and all but pulls her out the room. They remain silent until they are settled in an otherwise empty lift, and Sherlock takes a moment to press his lips against the soft waves of her hair, peace falling over his mind at last.

Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, Molly timidly asks, "So… so what do we do now?"

Sherlock blinks. "We could… go for coffee?"

"I could have a cup."

She smiles, and looks down when his hand makes tentative contact with hers. Linking their fingers together, they wait for the lift door to open, before she leads them to the entrance of the hospital. The dawn is beginning to break over London, and she turns to him in the doorway, shooting him a small, shy smile. He gives her a small one of his own, before squeezing her hand gently in his.

Together, they step out of the darkness and into the light.

* * *

End.

Thoughts?


End file.
